Lewrie stepped out onto a fresh-swept sidewalk, looked up at the gloomy, coal-sooted sky, and drew what felt like his last free breath, his left hand fretting on the hilt of his hanger, and his right hanging limp by his side, loath to take a single more step forward, or climb up the steps to the row house's door.
For London, with all its stinks, the air he drew in was rather fresh; it wasn't raining, for a bloody wonder, and as he looked up, as he would to read the set of the sails and the wind's direction, Lewrie could actually make out shape and form in the clouds, even espy several patches of open, wispy blue, here and there. Then, as if the wicks of theatrical lanthorns had been turned up, the sun peeked out briefly, to stab bright shafts down on the city through those wispy cloud-gaps, and brightened the street they stood in.
"Marvellous," Mr. Twigg smirked as he shot his cuffs and tugged down his fashionable waist-coat. "Why, Lewrie, I do declare the sacrificial birds' entrails are found flawless, the auguries are auspicious, and the old gods smile upon us, haw!"
"Bugger the old gods," was Lewrie's muttered reply to that. "If we must, we must. Let's get it done."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The row house fairly shouted Respectability, though in a muted, subtle way; "shouting" would have been thought too "common" or enthusiastic by its owners, perhaps. The terrace of row houses was a relatively new development outside; once one was in the entry hall, however, it was obvious that materials from older, razed houses had been re-used, for the entry's panelling looked to be authentic Jacobean Fold woodworking, the immense and intricately carved marble staircases had the sheen from many hands and feet over a very long time, too well-crafted to be sent to the scrapyard. The tables and such were of a heavier, past-century style, too, and the framed paintings and mirrors were gilt-framed in a Baroque style. Bright new red, blue, and buff Axminster or Winton carpets covered the usual black-and-white chequered tile floors, and ran up the staircase to cover slick, worn spots on the treads. The house of a serious collector? Lewrie wondered, taking in the statues in the recesses, the noble Greco-Roman busts on plinths; the house of a rich merchant or banker, or someone titled?
A balding old major-domo in sombre black livery took their hats, cloaks, and Lewrie's sword, then ushered them abovestairs without more than a begrudging word or two. Once up, he opened a glossy wooden set of double doors and bowed them into a parlour-cum-library done in much the same You-Will-Be-Impressed decor, but for the massive walls of bookcases from floor to ceiling on two sides; more new-ish, bright Turkey carpets on glossy wood floors, a world globe on a stand in one corner about a yard across, a heavy and ornate old desk before the windows and surprisingly bright and cheery (though heavy) draperies; a desk stout enough for Cromwell and an entire squad of fully-armoured Roundheads to have fought upon, if they'd felt like it. There were several wing chairs and settees, done in brighter chintzes, on which sat some very Respectable and Seriously Earnest men and women, who stared at the newcomers like a flock of vultures waiting for "supper" to go "toes-up" and die.
"Sir," Mr. Twigg intoned with suitable gravity, and a head bow.
"Ah ha," a slim older man seated behind the desk replied, as he rose to his feet. His coat was a sombre black, too, though enlivened with satin facings and lapels, a fawn or buff-coloured waist-coat, and new-fangled ankle-length trousers instead of formal breeches, slim-cut, and light grey. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I name to you Mister Zachariah Twigg, late of the Foreign Office, and his protege, Captain Alan Lewrie…"
Hell if I'm his protege! Lewrie irritatedly thought.
"… man of the hour, and sponsor of human freedom," he heard the fellow conclude.
"Hurrah! Oh, hurrah!" a young lady cried, leaping to her feet and clapping her hands, all enthusiastic Methodist-like, which sentiment was seconded an instant later by all the others present, who stood and began to applaud him, making Lewrie gawp, redden in confusion, and almost start out of his boots. Then, to his further amazement, damned if they didn't begin to sing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" (not at all well or coordinatedly, mind), but, they sounded genuine in their approval. Lewrie decided that lowering his head and coming over all modest was called for, and considered scuffing his boot toes might not go amiss, either. What the bloody Hell? he thought, though.
"Though there are troubling aspects, indeed, to your feat, sir," the fellow behind the desk said as the song (mercifully) ended and he came to where Lewrie stood, "it is an exploit which I, and many others, wish to become commonplace, in future. Allow me to shake you by your hand, Captain Lewrie." Which he did, so energetically that his long, wavy hair nigh-bobbed as he took Lewrie's paw in his and gave it a two-handed pumping. "William Wilberforce, sir… and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Erm… well, thankee, sir," Lewrie managed to say. Wilberforce wasn't half the glum ogre he'd imagined; and, for a Reverend, he dressed in the latest fashion, with the help of an excellent tailor, too!
"Some of your admirers, Captain Lewrie, and the leading lights in the movement to eliminate the scurrilous institution of slavery in every British possession, not merely in the British Isles , which we've already accomplished, thank the Good Lord… Reverend Mister Clarkson… Mistress Hannah More…"
The faces and names went by in a mind-muddling rush, too many at once for Lewrie, though Mistress Hannah More was another surprise to him… she might look him up and down like taking measure of a rogue, with her lips as pursed as Twigg's, but she was, in the main, a rather handsome woman, not half the infamous and forbidding "Kill-Joy" he'd imagined, either. Though granite and ice did come to mind as he made a graceful "leg" to her, getting a coolly-imperious curtsy back.
"… host, Mister Robert Trencher," Wilberforce said, passing Lewrie on to a stout but handsome man in his late fourties, another of those who espoused the latest London fashions, in brighter suiting than one might expect from a run-of-the-mill "New Puritan."
"Your servant, sir," Lewrie said, taking the offered hand.
"Nay, Captain Lewrie, 'tis I who hold that I am your servant," Mr. Trencher heartily replied. " 'Twas a risky business, but commendable, most commendable! And I shall be pleased to do everything in my power to see that you should not suffer for it. Ah… allow me to name to you, sir, my wife and daughter. Captain Lewrie, Mistress Portia Trencher. My dear, Captain Alan Lewrie."
Time to make another "leg" as Mrs. Trencher, a fetching older woman in shimmery grey satin, curtsied her greetings in proper fashion, and state that he was her servant, as well.
"… Captain Alan Lewrie, my daughter, Theodora. My dear…"
The young lady, no more than nineteen or twenty, Lewrie guessed, had no patience for staid, languid "airs." She bobbed him a very brief curtsy, but also reached out to take both his hands in hers, fingertips gripping fingertips, and her grip trembling but strong.
"Your servant, Miss Trencher," Lewrie dutifully tried to say, noting that this Theodora was the very same lady who had leaped to her feet, cheered, and clapped him.
"I echo my father, Captain Lewrie," she nigh-breathlessly gushed, "for in gratitude for the bold step you took to free so many who cried out for rescue from abominable cruelty, it is I who are yours… your servant, I meant to say! Delighted to be!" she exclaimed, a higher blush rising to her face over her hapless innuendo, in what was obviously a rehearsed speech of welcome.
Careful, old son! Lewrie chid himself, feeling lusty stirrings in his groin; Let go of her, now. Hands t' yourself…
He took a half-step back and lowered his hands to break free of her fervent grip, taking note of her parents' stern cringes over her enthusiasm; her parents taking note of his own "chaste" reticence and surprise at her departure from the normal graces, he also hoped! One more bow of his head, which let Lewrie take a better peek at her.
God Almighty! he thought. For young Mistress Theodora Trencher was the very personification of elfin beauty! She stood not a whisker above five feet, two inches, in her soft-soled "at-home" slippers, very
slim and wee. Her hair was a dark brown that was almost raven, curled with irons, and banged over a well-shaped, thoughtful-looking brow; a firm jawline and sweetly tapering chin, but with very full mouth, and lips he was sure would be eminently soft and kissable…! She did not wear the artifice of cosmetics, and had no need of them, for her complexion was the epitome of English "cream," and her eyes, huge at that moment in enthusiasm, were the most intriguing, and rare, violet!
"I really did very little, Mistress Trencher, though I am grateful for your good opinion," he responded, with a dash of gruff, "sea-dog" modesty, as Twigg had rehearsed him. He managed to tear his eyes away from gawping at her impressive bosom; the newest women's fashions evidently allowed even the Respectable to sport low necklines, and her "poonts" or "cat-heads" could not be faulted! Turning to her parents, he added, "Part of it, I must confess, was need, d'ye see. The Fever Isles are hard on European sailors, and we'd had a bad bout of Yellow Jack aboard…"
Even with his back to him, Lewrie could feel Twigg cringe and slit his mouth, for him to blurt out that his actions were anything less than humanitarian and selfless!
"Indeed, sir? I was informed…" Rev. Wilberforce said with a wary sniff. "Had we not, though, sir," Lewrie quickly extemporised to save himself, "there'd have been no vacancies for the escaped slaves. The Admiralty frowns on captains who recruit, or accept, volunteers above the establishment deemed proper for a frigate of Proteus's Rate, even to the number of cabin-servants and ship's boys allowed, unless they are paid from a captain's purse. They're jealous of every pence spent on rations, kits, clothing, shoes, and what not.
" 'Tis said, sir," Lewrie concluded, striving to recall what a pious expression looked like, "that the Lord moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform. The slaves' prayers, and mine, coincided nigh miraculously." "Amen!" Theodora seconded.
"Just as Admiralty has broken captains who cheat the Exchequer by overstating the number of their crews, despite losses to desertion and death," Mr. Twigg informed all present with a knowing and casually world-wise air (even if he was glaring daggers at Lewrie), "who pocket the lost hands' pay, and connive with the Purser, who will sell off the un-issued rations and slop goods, Reverend, ladies and gentlemen, just as often as they would one who over-recruits."
"Well… shall we be seated and have tea?" Mr. Trencher suggested, waving his guests to the settees and chairs about the parlour. Twigg practically snagged Lewrie by the elbow and led him to a settee too short for more than two, looking as if he'd love to hiss cautions, but couldn't. As they sorted themselves out, waiting for the ladies to sit first, Lewrie took happy note that he'd have a grand angle on the fetching young Miss Theodora, who dipped her head most gracefully, exposing what a fine and swan-like neck she had above her lace shawl.
"Or, might Captain Lewrie and Mister Twigg prefer refreshments more stimulating than tea?" Mrs. Hannah More enquired with a wary cock of her head.
Playin' fast an' loose with the Trenchers' hospitality, ain't we? Sly witch! Lewrie spitefully thought, though answering her with another of his "special modest" grins, a shrug and shake of his head.
"As we say in the Navy, ma'am, the sun is still high over the yardarm, for me," he replied. "Tea would be delightful."
The next hour passed much as Twigg had warned him; they asked careful questions as to his motives, how his "theft" had occurred, and what sort of fellow was his fellow-conspirator, ex-Col. Christopher Cashman. Was he a spiritual man, and just when had his revulsion of slavery arisen? In his new enterprises in the United States, was he a slave-owner there, or…? And, more to the point, when and where had the (so far) noble Capt. Lewrie developed his own detestation?
So he told them of his first experiences in the Caribbean, back during the American Revolution; of the fugitive Yankee slaves who had run to British-held towns and garrisons, seeking the freedom promised should they aid the Tory cause.
"I was at Yorktown during the siege," Lewrie related, addressing Mrs. Hannah More, his most-insistent and most-dubious inquisitor, "in charge of a weak two-gun battery of landed guns… only a Midshipman, then. For labourers and help loading the guns, we had several runaway slaves. We were all on short-commons, we ate the same rations, slept in the redan together, kept watch and drilled together, with the same chance of being killed in battle, did the French and the Rebels attack.
"Well… they stood a worse chance, 'cause they faced lashings, a return to their chains, being lynched or shot, if we lost… which we did, and, I fear, some of them did suffer such fates, for very few of them escaped before the Lord Cornwallis's surrender, and it shamed me, ma'am… the way they looked at me, the veriest boy Midshipman, as their saviour, and I could do nothing, in the end," he told them.
Damned if they didn't, and damned if I didn't, Lewrie took pause to recall; And every bloody word of it the Gospel Truth!
"And you were made prisoner. Captain Lewrie?" Mr. Trencher asked.
"No, sir. Two boatloads of light infantry, North Carolina Loyalist troops, I and my few hands, were blown downriver while trying to ferry the army across York River. Got stranded on the mud shoals down Guinea Neck, the morning of the surrender. We sheltered at a tobacco plantation, a slave plantation, 'til we could re-work our barges so we could sneak out to sea and escape. The orders were to abandon all but British, or White, troops, d'ye see… the horrid conditions that the plantation slaves had to stand, their near nakedness… pardon…"
"Fought their way out, 'gainst a company of Virginia Militia and a company of French troops from Lauzun's Legion," Mr. Twigg added with a sage nod of his head, to boot. Lewrie snapped his gaze to Twigg; he didn't know that anyone but the participants knew the details of that long-ago horror. "Nigh a week on the Atlantic, before being picked up by one of our warships. Might have sailed all the way to New York if he had had to. A most resourceful and determined man is our Captain Lewrie… even as a mere boy of a Midshipman," Twigg ended, bestowing on Lewrie a most-admiring grin, one which Lewrie was sure was costing his soul a pinch or two. But, it was a welcome diversion, one that went down well with all present.
"Then… in '86,1 was in the Bahamas," Lewrie continued, "in command of a ketch-rigged gun-vessel, Alacrity. A Lieutenant, finally. There was a James Finney, there… known as 'Calico Jack,' like that pirate, Jack Rackham. A war hero, a successful privateer, and a merchant of great fortune… made by continuing privateering against every trading ship, under any flag, even British. He was very big in slaves. Practically owned the Vendue House at Nassau, and always had what they call 'Black Ivory'… 'cause he was pirating slave ships on their way to the Americas, murdering the crews, and selling the Africans off, as well as the re-painted, re-named, re-papered ships. With official connivance, sad t'say. We raided his secret cache of goods, his lair, on Walker 's Cay, finally, and found the bones of nigh an hundred pirated slaves too old or sick to auction off… some still bound in coffles by their chains, after they were murdered. Some not," he grimly said. "Evidently, 'Calico Jack' and his cut-throats thought it a waste to let perfectly good chains and manacles be buried."
"Broke up the pirate cartel," Twigg stuck in, again, with even more (faint) praise, "and pursued Finney right into Charleston harbour in South Carolina, recovered what the brute had looted from the most-prominent island bank, and captured the last of his minions for trial, and righteous hangings, at New Providence. Put a very permanent end to 'Calico Jack,' as well, didn't ye, Lewrie?"
What doesn't he know about my doings? Lewrie gawped to himself, half-turning on the settee to see Twigg's eyes all steel-glinted.
"Well, 'twas personal by then, Mister Twigg," Lewrie admitted. "After Finney'd tried to seduce or assault my wife while I was at sea."
"And," Twigg drawled, looking back at the others with a smile on his phyz that was almost beatific, "made the man pay for his brute importunity by his own hand." That made 'em gasp and shiver!
"By personal experience with Captain Lewrie, I may also relate to you that his o
wn Coxswain, any captain's most trusted aide, is also a runaway Jamaican house slave by name of Matthew Andrews," Mr. Twigg further informed them, once they got over their vicarious thrill. "He has been with him for years, and most-like had a great influence upon Captain Lewrie's views on the despicable institution of slavery."
"My word, sir," that Mr. Clarkson exclaimed, "I am certain we were unaware of the depth of your feelings upon this head."
"A house slave, ladies and gentlemen," Lewrie said for himself, "better fed, clothed, and sheltered than field hands, one might even say pampered, to some extent, yet… Andrews risked three hundred or more lashes, or the noose, to flee it, and be a whole, free man."
Hang on a bit, Lewrie suddenly thought; he might as well have, for his brow and face were already furrowed with some sort of intensity. Do I really despise slavery as much's I'm protesting? Well, mine arse on a band-box, but I really think I do!
"Don't rightly know what his name was before," Lewrie admitted, suddenly of a much cleaner soul, relieved that he was not completely playing a role to save his neck, "lest his old owners spot him and try to haul him back, I s'pose. Won't even tell me, just in case, but…"
"And your man Andrews, your newly rescued Negroes," Wilberforce enquired, "has any attempt been made to see to their souls, Captain?"
"Uhm… the night they came aboard, sir," Lewrie said, with a feeling that his soul-washing had been very temporary, for he was now back to tip-toeing 'cross a fakir's bed of nails. "I hope that no one thinks this a presumption, but… 'tis customary for new hands to doff their civilian clothes, go under the wash-deck pump, and get bathed, be rid of fleas and such, before being issued slop-clothing. Well… our Sailing Master, Mister Winwood, a most devout Christian, thought it much like baptism, d'ye see. At his suggestion, each chose a new name for ship's books, as if they had been baptised, or christened."
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